


Black/Blue Dots

by Lovinglock (wandere_in_space)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Drug Use, Drug Withdrawal, Drugged John, Drugged Sex, Drugged Sherlock, Fluff and Smut, Johnlock Fluff, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, My First Smut, POV Alternating, Rating: NC17, Reichenbach Falls, Sherlock Holmes and Drug Use, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-05
Updated: 2014-01-05
Packaged: 2018-01-07 13:56:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 20,889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1120655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wandere_in_space/pseuds/Lovinglock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock returns to London to find John distant and angry. With Mary's help they manage to build a very tentative truce but after the wedding Sherlock looses himself back into drugs. There is also a killer in London circling around John and Mary but in Sherlock's state he can't quite make sense of it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Dream

**Author's Note:**

> I write because I love these characters and they make me happy. I also want to make you happy but I don't have a beta and it isn't brit-picked so if you see something that bugs you please let me know. I want to get better and keep writing for your and my pleasure.

It had been almost three weeks since his “death” and Sherlock hadn’t been able to leave London yet. The preparations for his departure had taken longer than he anticipated but finally it was all in place and now he just had to wait until tomorrow night for the last of the documentations that he needed and off he would be. There had been so much damned waiting in this process, and normally he despised it but he found it gave him the opportunity to observe those he was leaving behind. 

He began with Mrs. Hudson, who once more proved herself strong and resilient despite the bad hip and pain he clearly saw in her. Resilience that made him admire her even more. Molly, who’s private tears surprised him considering what she knew, but was appropriately devastated and put on a good show when necessary making Sherlock very grateful. Lestrade, who seemed to have gained a need to drown himself in his work and since all Sherlock could do at the moment was hide in the shadows he had learned to appreciate Lestrade if for no other reason than his unflinching determination to solve the puzzles in front of him. Sherlock had even dared to spy on Mycroft, who as a proper Englishman had carried on, but despite the fact that he had the weight of not only the British government but also that of a handful of other countries squarely on his shoulders and had been instrumental in this little stunt of Sherlock’s, and would continue to be so in his travels, had lost his usual swiftness and got lost staring of into space. He knew that if either of the Holms brothers had been capable of love, it would undoubtedly exist between them. But as is was the closest they came to brotherly love was a limited tolerance of one another. 

Still all Sherlock had done was make the rounds, cataloguing everyone’s reactions, progress and wellbeing. This reassured him that he was free to leave them to do all that needed being done and they would be safely where he had left them. Like putting his violin in its case before going off. Except for John. John, who Sherlock had been carefully observing since the day at St. Bart’s and who with each new day only seemed worse and not better. Sherlock had expected John to feel the pain of loosing his friend but had been completely shocked at the intensity and magnitude of the devastation he saw in the older man. And now Sherlock couldn’t put him away. He was like one of those wood building blocks left in the rain to swell and deform to the point he no longer fit in the set. 

The doctor hadn’t been back at 221b Baker St. and Sherlock was grateful that John’s and Harry’s relationship was on the mend since she had stopped drinking giving him a place to stay while he got his bearings. She had, with varying degrees of success, been trying to care for him, offering him food and sleep and even taking him outside to get some air. She didn’t know that when she was at work he made his way to the cemetery and sat by the empty grave. He never cried and hadn’t talked since the day he was there with Ms. Hudson he just sat and stared at the headstone as if where going to at some point offer all the answers to his unspoken questions. 

A small vibration at his chest took Sherlock out of his head and he retrieved the phone from the inside pocket of his coat. He had set an alarm to indicate when the sun had finally set and it was doing just that so he pulled on his scarf, long coat and gloves and left the semi-deserted houseboat he had been hiding in. He was anxious to get to John. Harry had left a couple of days earlier on a business trip and by the size of her bag would be gone for at least a couple days more. John left to his own devices had managed to crumple a little more. Loose himself a little further. This was causing Sherlock anxiety or frustration. Guilt? Pain? He wasn’t sure he just knew he had to get to her flat. He hitched the collar of his coat a little higher and didn’t care to analyze if it was the rain that was picking up or the fact that it had been twelve hours and forty-two minutes since he last saw John that made him quicken his pace. 

It had taken him a little longer to settle into his spot on the rooftop of the building across from Harry’s flat and the rain, which was really coming down now, made it that much more difficult to see but what he saw chilled his body so powerfully it made the rain feel warm on his skin. It also reinforced in his mind the decision he had taken the previous night. Even if it did mean he was breaking a promise to his only friend. John was kneeling on the floor with his face in his hands. Each sob that wracked his body making Sherlock desperate to reach across the distance thru the brick, thru the glass and hold John (careful plan and calculated risks be damned.) His frustration grew along side the need to sooth John but all he could do was hide, waiting and watching. 

Eventually the heaving of his shoulders stopped, the shaking in his hands lessened and John was able to compose himself enough to gather his things and get into the bathroom for a shower. This was it. Sherlock only had a few minutes because as soon as John got out of his shower he would make himself a cup of tea and sit on the couch staring out into space like he had done every night for weeks. So he shimmied off the roof and into Harry’s flat by way of the back kitchen window. He filled the kettle and put it on the stove with out turning it on and took the bottle with the clear liquid out of his pocket. He hesitated for a moment remembering how John had made him promise that he would never drug him again, then remembered John on the floor and put a few drops into the water telling himself that this was different. It was only going to make John sleep. 

As he made his way back up to the roof he hoped that in his state John wouldn’t notice that the kettle had been empty and now it was full. He settled into a new spot on the roof where he was slightly better protected from the rain just in time to see John take the kettle feel that it was full and turn the stove on. It didn’t take long for John to make his tea, sit at the kitchen table and take a few sips. Just as Sherlock was silently cursing the rain for somewhat obstructing his view, she saw John drop his cup to the ground and slump down his chair. Blinding fear shot thru Sherlock. For a moment he thought the man had been shot but there was no shattered window or blood or an assailant running away. He quickly ran thru his calculations. John’s weight, the amount of water, the number of drops. 

Oh. 

Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. 

Of course he had considered all the measurements including the volume of liquid that John would end up with but had not taken a crucial factor into account. John hadn’t eaten in days probably. How could he have been so stupid! He had watched him repeatedly just push his food around on the plate only to toss it in the bin later. He made his way back into the flat to help John. He wanted the man to rest not to misalign his back in a semi-comatose state on the bloody chair. 

As gently as he could manage he dragged John onto the couch. Unsurprisingly it wasn’t very difficult since the man had lost at least a full stone in the last few weeks. Still he was breathing and although slow his pulse was steady. Sherlock couldn’t keep himself from watching him for a few minutes then decided to clean up the mess in the kitchen. Hopefully this way when he awoke John would think he simply fell asleep on the couch. Carefully he picked up all the shards of the broken cup, sopped up the spilled tea and made a fresh cup so it would be there innocently sitting on the kitchen table when John opened his eyes. 

Despite himself (and the nattering voice in his head that told him to leave just in case John did wake up) he went to check on the doctor one last time before he left. He had hoped to find his friend pleasantly resting folded inside the arms of a dreamless sleep but he found tears rolling down John’s temples. The pained expression was so clearly etched on his face even in sleep. But this wasn’t one of his usual army nightmares, no Sherlock had seen plenty of those and this was most definitely different. It felt deeper, somehow more personal. This wasn’t a nightmare that was making John relive the horrors of moments past, no this was a nightmare that was trying to tear him apart, trying to make him bleed and destroy him from the inside out. 

Without thinking Sherlock knelt beside him and wiped the tears from John’s face with both hands. Desperate to erase them with the palms of his hands, to have them take with them any traces of the pain he himself was inflicting on the one person he cared for the most. He wasn’t being tender by any means but somehow he was still startled when he felt John shift. He meant to leave, rushing out thru the back like a common criminal but strong, remarkably steady hands went up and came to rest on Sherlock’s wrists. He barely opened his eyes “Sher- Sherlock?” “Shh. It’s ok.” “Am I d-? Are you… really here?” He asked as his hands went from Sherlock’s wrists to his face. The words were weak and slurred clearly intoxicated but his hands were powerful and insistent as he pulled the younger man’s face closer to his own. Sherlock tried to sooth him again only to have John pull him down to kiss his forehead. Sherlock tensed, completely caught off guard, but then John let out a heartbreaking sob and kissed his eyelids, cheeks, nose, and temples all between wretched sobs. 

“John-” Sherlock started not really knowing where he was going with that. “Please” John managed in a strangled voice when he sense that the younger man was pulling away. John’s plea combined with his eyes, red and swollen from weeks of crying, foggy from tears and the drug, made something inside Sherlock’s chest constrict, crushing him most thoroughly. Instinctively he knew he would do anything to bring a small measure of relief to John even if it was for just a few moments, regardless of potential costs or risks his never ceasing mind was blaring at him. So when John pulled his face closer and softly kissed his lips Sherlock not only let him but responded in kind. 

If the consulting detective was truly honest kissing John wasn’t something he had ever wanted or even considered before but now that it was happening he couldn’t think of a single thing he’d ever desired more. Sherlock shifted closer crushing his lips against John, snaking his tongue into the other man’s mouth. He had meant to kiss him softly, to gently calm the good doctor but instead the kiss was desperate and needy. He felt John’s tongue hot, heavy and slick sliding across his own. He heard a moan only to realize the sound was coming from with in his own throat. John’s fingers tangled in Sherlock’s unruly wet hair pulling him closer. Sherlock responded by holding on tighter and John shifted simultaneously making room and pulling Sherlock on to the couch. 

Sherlock knew he was taking advantage of John’s vulnerability, his pain, his drug induced state and was keenly aware that he had to stop, he had to leave but he also knew that the tears were now flowing down both of their faces and he wanted nothing more than to give John all he needed so when John pleaded “Please Sherlock” all he could do was press himself closer to the doctor and kiss him harder. The heat coming from John was painfully shocking to Sherlock’s rain chilled body and when John puled his shirt up to lay his hand on his bare back Sherlock couldn’t help the loud moan that bubbled up inside him. John pulled and tugged and slung his leg over Sherlock’s as if he were trying to hold on to him with every inch of his body and with the new position Sherlock could feel John’s erection hard, heavy and insistent against his stomach. Used to ignoring his body as he was, it didn’t surprise him that it took this new little piece of data for him to register his own erection firmly pressed against John’s thigh. 

Once again the sensation that he was taking advantage of John came ringing, prickling the depths of his mind. John might not even remember this in the morning or if he did would think it was nothing more than a dream but he was at a loss at how to stop, how to pull away without breaking his only friend’s heart one more time. As it stood he had already peppered kisses down John’s face and throat. Had raked his teeth on John’s bottom lip, his pulse point and nipped at his ear. His hands had wandered and caressed his chest, stomach, back, and where currently inside his pajama bottoms roughly holding onto his arse. Still the alarm bells where ringing loudly in his head so he pulled slightly back resting his forehead on John’s frantically trying to catch his breath in order to slow his heart rate and the momentum that they seem to be picking up. However, John was having none of that, his right hand although half pinned under them was determinedly holding Sherlock’s left shoulder. His dominant left hand was leaving burning patterns on the skin of Sherlock’s back pulling him closer with varying degrees of pressure. 

“Don’t leave yet. I can’t. I ne-” a sob had interrupted John but Sherlock didn’t need him to continue, he knew exactly how that sentence would end. He had made John cry, moan, gasp and now he needed to make him come undone. For a fleeting second he considered the many ways he could achieve this but was quickly distracted by John undoing his trousers and pulling his erection free. John wrapped his hand around the base and gave a gentle tug upward, which made Sherlock loose his breath and arch his back. It took him a moment to remember that this wasn’t about him but about John so he pushed the pajama bottoms down John’s hips, cupped his testicles tenderly massaging then softly, carefully raked his fingernails up the length of John giving a soft squeeze at the tip. He felt John vibrate with sensation and instinctively tighten his hand around Sherlock. 

He gently removed John’s hand, pressed them tightly together aligning their bodies and erections while wrapping his hand over both of them. The sensation brought a bolt of lightning up his spine surprising and elating him. He knew it had done the same for the doctor by the way his ragged breath rasped at his ear, the way he’d thrown his head back as if he couldn’t get enough air and how he’d dug his fingers into Sherlock’s shoulders leaving bruises that Sherlock would later miss almost as much as he missed John. Still it didn’t feel enough, he wanted, no needed more, but in John’s current condition there were lines he just simply wasn’t going to cross. As it was there was some part of his brain that was telling him this was probably illegal or at the very least very not good. Part of his brain that promptly shut up as soon as John wrapped his own hand over Sherlock’s gripping, urging, demanding for more speed, more intensity and there was no force on earth that would have stopped Sherlock from giving him just that. 

Sherlock’s world narrowed focusing only on John. On his lips, his tongue, his breath, on the heartbeat so strong that he could feel it in his own chest. He collected every sound, every intake of breath, and every whisper that tumbled out of John he boxed it up in a corner of his mind so he could remember, replay it hanging his soul on it all later when the nights grew long and John’s absence was as solid as an iceberg. Always hiding in the depths of Sherlock’s consciousness. 

He felt John’s desire heavy in his hand, damp with both their need and when John exploded with Sherlock’s name on his lips it only took a couple more strokes for him to shatter into a million pieces so intensely that it left him feeling dazed. For a moment, when his brain finally kicked into gear again, he wondered what he would tell John, how he would proceed, but the release and the drug made John’s eyes heavy, his body limp and soon he was deep in sleep. He took a moment to savor being this close to his only friend, if he could still call him that considering all that had transpired between them including Sherlock’s impending trip. When he finally felt stable enough he cleaned them up, rearranged John’s clothes and effectively erased any traces of him ever being there. Soon Sherlock was leaving the flat and walking into a life that no longer included John.


	2. Two Years, Four Days

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is back. John's Angry.

It had been over two years since Sherlock’s “death” and four days since his return and John was angry. Not his usual frustrated anger but a white searing blinding anger that left him trembling. Anger so powerful that it kept him from eating, from sleeping and had even kept him from work. He knew that at some point other emotions would seep in, hurt, relief maybe even joy. He scoffed turning his breath into a white cloud in the bitterly cold London air. He shoved his hands further into his pockets and kept walking aimlessly thru the city his mind wildly dissecting different parts of his relationship with the consulting detective. He tried to remember every conversation every argument anything in search for. For. Well isn’t that just bloody brilliant? He didn’t even know what he was searching for. 

Logically he knew that there was nothing there for him to find. The plan for his “death” hadn’t formed until the night before. He was sure of it because Sherlock had assured him and God help him he still believe every word that man told him. He turned another corner took a few more brisk step and then came to a grinding halt. Not for the first time since Sherlock’s “resurrection” John found himself at the steps of 221b Baker St. Hot bitter anger uncoiled in the pit of his stomach. He didn’t know why his body kept bringing him here because he sure as hell didn’t want to be there. He didn’t want to even see Sherlock much less try to attempt talking to him. So he did what he had done every other time he spun on his heels and began to walk away. 

He was sure the younger man was aware of his presence. Possibly by knowing how John’s mind worked or by the commemorative photos Mycroft was sure to send or judging by the violin music coming from the flat by watching him thru the window. John had only taken a few steps when a thought popped into his head propelling him to make his way into the building and up the steps. He understood (again, logically) why Sherlock had not told him of his plans before hand but why had in the two years since not once bothered to contact him and tell him. It was as if for the past two years he simply forgot John. He had barely walked thru the door. “Of course I didn’t forget. It would have put you and everyone else in peril.” 

He absolutely hated when Sherlock acted as if he could hear the thought inside of John’s head, it didn’t matter that he was usually right, it was unnerving and damn it sometimes he just wanted to get the word out himself. Except that right now he couldn’t focus on that he was too distracted by the sight of Sherlock. Still facing the window wearing only his pajama bottoms playing Elgar or something of the sort. He was thinner with a couple of new scars and four small black/blue dots at the top of each of his shoulders. Somehow they caught his eye they were obviously deliberately put there since they were almost perfectly aligned and they were definitely not there before. The realization that he had at some point learned every freckle on Sherlock’s back brought the memory of the crazy dream he had had a few weeks after the “death.” 

“Why? You didn’t think I could keep your secret? Or was it because with that massive brain of yours you couldn’t figure out how to get in touch with me with out others finding out?” John spat out. “Don’t be ridiculous. Of course I could have gotten a message to you.” That made John’s hot piercing anger turn into a cold semi-murderous rage. He stalked to Sherlock barely giving him enough time to turn and set his violin down. “So you didn’t trust me to keep your secret, then.” He half yelled inches from the taller man’s face. Sherlock didn’t flinch or move back he didn’t’ even blink. He was the picture of normalcy save for the yellowish/green bruise that had bloomed on the right side of his face after John had punched him four days ago. 

“Look at how you are taking it now. Imagine I had sent you a message back then when-” Sherlock hesitated then continued. “When it was fresh.” John thought back to when he was still walking around feeling as if he had a gaping hole in his chest. When he had to bring his hand to his chest and look down to reassure himself that he didn’t have a cavernous empty opening spewing the last of the blood still left in him. But how did he. Arg. Of course Sherlock knew, he was probably keeping tabs or spying on him. Then the memory of his dream came rushing back to him. “That night- You…” He couldn’t even finish his sentence. He took a step back. Sherlock’s eye widened. He looked… surprised? Remorseful? But before John could really tell they were back to their trained neutrality. Still it unsettled him giving him a nagging feeling that his dream had been more than a dream. Feeling that he quickly dismissed as completely ludicrous. 

John’s body began to tremble in earnest and he was struggling to suppress the urge to punch him? Throttle him? Kiss him? That last thought scared John enough to make him take a few steps back. “You didn’t even give me a chance. You let me put you in the ground and suffer your loss for two years. Two years, Sherlock! Do you know what that does to a person? What that did to me?” Sherlock took a step closer opening his mouth as if to give an explanation but John’s hand went up between them stopping him in his tracks. “It took a long time for the feeling of complete and utter desolation to subside. A long time for me to wake up in the morning without wishing I was dead right next to you.” John whispered and he could see the pain mixed with surprise in Sherlock’s face. “It took a long time to get used to living my life without you in it. And now that I have...” He hesitated, he could feel himself starting to lose it but he had to get it off his chest. “Now that I have I can’t have you back turning it upside down again. I just can’t.” He struggled to get a lungful of air. “Not now. Not yet.” This wasn’t up for debate. He wasn’t going to fold under Sherlock’s negotiations. This is what he needed and before he could change his mind or be reasoned into anything different he turned and left the flat. 

It was hours still before he made it back home. Mary in the kitchen waiting for him, tea at the ready and an easy reassuring hug to ground him in the present. His life had changed so drastically in the last two years it was a wonder he could even remember the person he was back then when he was chasing a mad man thru the city’s streets at all hours of the night. His life with Mary wasn’t dangerous but it was exciting in it’s own kind and loving way. He could have full, proper conversations with her without the need for anybody to dumb them down for his sake. When he talked to her he never held anything back, he told her how he had ended up at Baker St. with out meaning to, how he had told Sherlock to stay away and how he had looked almost confused but definitely hurt. She didn’t judge him or question his actions. Mary with her gentle touch and loving eyes calmed his nerves. And later when he took her to bed he was truly grateful for the blessing of having her in his life. And once, and only once, did Sherlock’s face flash before his mind’s eye. And when it was all done he fell into the dreamless sleep that had eluded him for four days. 

*  
“Doc! Hey doc!” John turned to see a skinny awkward kid from the homeless network making his way to him. It had started soon after Sherlock’s “death”, despite how much he told people they were not a couple everyone insisted in treating him like the grieving widower to the point of bringing him casserole after casserole. Food he took to giving to some of the homeless kids. Eventually he was patching up their scrapes and treating their colds. Soon they were walking with him to the park or the grocer or even the cemetery as if they were afraid that he would walk himself in front of a bus or off a bridge. He usually let them since their conversations were always light and full of life. When Sherlock had come back they had taken to walking behind him close enough to stop him if he got to close to that dreaded bus but far enough to leave him to his thoughts. 

“Morning Matt. I really am fine, you know.” He said as the kid with the too thin hoodie got close but he could see there was something wrong. The kid looked scared and a bit jumpy. “Er… doc it’s Andy. It’s pretty bad.” John went back into his flat and grabbed the medic bag he kept on hand just for times like this. “I’ll call the clinic and let them know you’ll be a little late.” Mary said as soon as she saw Matt at the door. 

They rushed down a few back alleys and into an old abandoned building were some of the homeless would stay when the nights got too cold. When Matt had said that it was bad it really hadn’t prepared John. This was more than just a beating, someone had tried to pulverize the lad. “What happened?” Said John as he got gloves on and gauzes and antiseptic out. “Some vultures got him. At least that’s what he said when he first stumbled back.” Said a girl in the corner, John thought her name was Stacey but couldn’t remember. Vultures where people, usually drunk uni guys, that got their kicks by beating the homeless in the area. He’d seen this a few times with these kids but not like this. This was vicious and looked more like the actions of one of Sherlock’s assassins. “When was this?” Ask John as he took in the broken ribs, fingers, and nose, dislocated shoulder, two, no three wounds that would need stiches and a possible concussion. “Around four.” Said a boy John didn’t recognize. And not for the first time he wondered why they didn’t just ring his doorbell. 

This was more than he could care for in an abandoned building with his limited supplies. “Help me get him up. Stacey grab my bag. I’m taking him to the clinic.” They all hesitated for a minute “Come on. He needs help now.” He didn’t quite shout but it was enough to snap them all into action. They had him in a cab and off to the clinic in minutes, although it had seemed that the cabbie was going to complain at some point but the look on John’s face and the way he forcefully gave him the address to the clinic made him keep his mouth shut. 

Patching Andy up didn’t actually take that long but it did take a few hours before Andy was able to pull himself together and tell them what had happened. John was right it hadn’t been some regular vultures after a night of pub crawling, but what surprise John was that all of this had been done by one person. John called Lestrade who agreed to take Andy’s statement. John suspected more out of a desire to check on John that an actual ability to do much for the lad. Andy described walking under a bridge pass and having a very fancy car pull up next to him. The next thing he knew two blokes had gotten out and where holding him still with his face towards the floor. He was able to see the legs of a third man exit the car and make their way towards him. He saw the man take his suit jacket off and hand it to a man he hadn’t noticed before and then quickly began punching him. Mostly in the face at first but as soon as his goons felt like Andy wouldn’t be able to run or fight back they dropped him and the man hit him everywhere he could land a punch or kick. 

“Have you seen something like this before?” Asked John as he walked the DI out to his patrol unit. “Actually mate, yea, twice before in the last two weeks. Completely different parts of the city, but it doesn’t make any sense. Not with the homeless. This is usually a tactic used by loan sharks or those after sensitive information. High end criminals that never bother with a bunch of homeless kids.” They walked a little further without talking. “We’re missing a piece of the puzzle. Or that kid there isn’t telling us something or we’re really overlooking something.” They stopped as they got to the car. “You know if Sherlock talked to-” John’s hands went up almost immediately “No. Nope. I don’t.” Then he remembered that it wasn’t him getting beaten. So he took a deep breath “I can’t keep Andy here over night so if you pick him up around six I’m sure he’d be glad to talk to Sherlock then.” It seems as if Lestrade was going to say something but then thought better of it, so he gave a quick nod and left. The rest of John’s day wasn’t as exciting but very busy.


	3. Musical Connection

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mary want's to bring John and Sherlock closer.

Light but firm pressure on the strings. Considering that the boy Lestrade had him question had only been in the city for roughly six months it was no surprise that Sherlock hadn’t seen him before. He had an alcoholic parent, mother judging by his speech patterns. Slow pull of the bow. Had been homeless before, probably along side his mother. No drugs. Took odd jobs when he could find them. And definitely not lying about not knowing his assailant before hand. Higher pitched notes. Going by the case files he believed the other victims also didn’t know the man but he was positive there were more than three victims. 

Some things quickly crystalized in his mind. The perpetrator was fairly young, judging by the description of his trousers and shoes. He had a degree of wealth and power, that was obvious, but his power and the responsibilities that came with it had recently expanded. Quicker movement of his still aching fingers. Of course. There had to have been a catalyst to his resent need for excessive violence. However, he couldn’t pinpoint if he was a foreigner new to the city or a local who had just lost the person that usually kept him in line. “Sherlock, someone’s here to see you.” Quite possibly the same person whose death had granted him the extended wealth and power. Double stops. A mentor or even a parent. “The mess Sherlock!” This wasn’t about getting something from the victims he was enjoying the violence. Deriving pleasure from the pain of others. Quick powerful burst of sound. “For goodness sake Sherlock!” Maybe trying to find his footing. “It’s ok Mrs. Hudson. Don’t disturb him I can…” 

Sherlock’s finger’s stilled. He turned from the window to see Mrs. Hudson picking up discarded plates with barely touched food and full cups of tea from around the flat. Mary, John’s Mary was standing at the door looking at him as if caught by surprise. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt.” Sherlock just looked. “It was beautiful. Macedonian?” He lowered the violin. She cleared her throat “I’m a bit of a music geek. I used to play the cello.” “Oh this kitchen! Don’t worry dear I’ll get some biscuits and tea from downstairs.” Came Mrs. Hudson’s voice as she was already making her way down the steps. Mary was definitely John’s type, beautiful but not overly so, kind and soft spoken but brave. Clearly since she was here most likely without John’s knowledge. “I never really played something like this. I stuck mostly with the classics like Pavane…” Sherlock set his violin in its case. He needed to move this along or the headache he had been fighting all day would finally grip him. “Please Mary take a seat.” She startled a bit and he wondered if he had said that to loud despite his trying to be welcoming. She looked around and ended up settling on John’s armchair. He settled in front of her in his own armchair and waited for her to say her piece although he already knew that she wanted for him to try and repair his relationship with John. 

They sat in silence for a few minutes. He could see her trying to figure out the best way to start the conversation. Then trying to figure out what would convince Sherlock to do his part. By the time that Mrs. Hudson brought the tea and biscuits neither one had said word. Well at least she wasn’t giggly and had stopped rambling. Finally he decided to give her a break. “It wasn’t me that wanted the friendship terminated. All I can do is respect his wishes and leave him be.” She looked surprised that he knew what she wanted but recovered quickly enough. “He doesn’t want the…er…He still values you as a friend, he’s just hurt and needed some time.” Sherlock took a sip from his tea and vaguely wondered how long it had been since he had last had a drink much less food. “I came to ask you to dinner. At our flat, I’ll be making lamb tomorrow and …” It was Sherlock’s turn to look surprised. She was definitely brave. “I appreciate it but I have no interest in being punched again.” He said flatly. “No, of course not. It won’t…. He won’t. I mean I’ll make sure no one gets punched.” 

Sherlock looked at her and she squirmed a bit under his analytical gaze and look down at her tea. “Mr. Holmes, when you were…well when we thought you were dead John often spoke of how he would like to have you at the wedding. As you know, it’s in just a few weeks. I’m just trying to….” She had a very annoying habit of not finishing her sentences but Sherlock found he didn’t mind her so much. “Sherlock.” She looked up clearly confused. “Mr. Holmes is my insufferable brother. I’m Sherlock.” She smiled as if she had just won the lotto. She set her half ignored tea on the table and got to her feet. “Shall we say 6:30, then?” She took a small piece of paper out of her purse and set it by the teacup. He gave a quick nod and she rushed out of the flat as if she were afraid that if she stayed he would change his mind. 

He took the piece of paper it was their address. Either she didn’t realize that he would already know exactly where they lived or she was giving him the courtesy of not boasting the fact that John had already told her all of his secrets. Sherlock suspected the latter. Truly he had to admit that she seemed to be a perfect fit for John. She was a nurse and understood John’s work; she was clever, well at least normal people’s idea of clever. She clearly loved him and was willing to give him all that Sherlock wouldn’t. He had to stop the flow of thoughts that came rushing to him next because the truth was there was nothing Sherlock wouldn’t give John. Not now, after realizing what he felt for John and how much he really needed him. Not after spending the last two years only being able to endure due to the hope he had of returning to John. He sighed, it didn’t matter in the end there was always going to be something Sherlock couldn’t give John and at this point even if he could John wanted nothing from Sherlock.

On shaky legs he took calm slow steps to lock the front door then made his way to his room and locked that door as well. He went to his closet where all the way to the back on the right hand side corner behind some shoes and under an empty suitcase he was able to pull off a floorboard. He wavered for a moment then remembered the first photograph Mycroft had sent him. The one of them outside of a café with John’s arms on her back and her hands on his chest, lips firmly pressed together. He tried not to think of John’s lips on his own but even after two years he could still feel how soft and warm and insistent they had been so he took the small black case with syringe and the small vial full of the clear liquid that would let him forget. Just for a while.


	4. Food, Wine and Gentle Steps

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock are finally talking again.

Between the extra police presence and the network tightening up to take care of each other there hadn’t been any more vulture incidents but patching up a kid that was hit by a cab, nothing serious just a few cuts and a sprained knee, had kept John out until well after Mary had gone to bed. In the morning he hadn’t wanted to wake her since it was her day off but as he was rushing out the door she came bounding up to him. “We have a special dinner guest tonight so please love don’t be late.” John looked at his watch, he was really very late. “I’ll be on time.” He gave her a kiss and off he went. He hadn’t asked about the dinner guests and he had meant to call her during lunch but he had been so busy at the clinic and had an irksome sensation that it might be her parents. Not wanting to make his soon to be in-laws wait he was out the clinic door right at six flagging down a cab just so he didn’t have to risk being late due to public transportation. 

When he entered the flat it smelled divinely, Mary was surely putting an effort into this dinner. He made his way into the kitchen where she was busy finishing up the salad. “Good you’re here.” She said as she gave him a quick peck. “What time are your parents going to be here?” He asked. She looked confused and a bit nervous. And that should have been his first clue. “What? No, not my parents. It’s…” the doorbell rang interrupting her mid-sentence. “He’s here. Right on time.” Her face lit up and she took her apron off making her way to the door. He was going to follow but an alarm bell rang. “Oh the lamb it’s ready.” “Go on, then. I’ll take it out.” Offered John.

“Very punctual.” He heard Mary say at a distance. “I…” a male voice responded but with the noises in the kitchen and trying not to drop the lamb or burn his hands off John missed the rest. Just as he was making his way out of the kitchen Mary came in holding an expensive bottle of Rioja that John recognized as one that Sherlock had stolen from Mycroft’s cellar a while back. He immediately made his way to the sitting room where there Sherlock was on their sofa looking for all the world as if this was a natural everyday occurrence in their lives. 

He couldn’t help the clenched teeth or fisted hands at his side when he demanded. “What are you doing here?” Sherlock turned and looked at John as if he was examining a mildly interesting piece of lint he had recently removed from his coat. “Your fiancé took the time to personally invite me over for dinner and I thought it rude to reject her invitation.” He had a few different answers at the tip of his tongue, none made much sense but all were very rude, still before he had a chance to say any Mary came in announcing that dinner was ready and the wine was open. 

The meal started very quietly yet Mary soon had Sherlock talking. The conversation was light, casual focusing on the food and the wine then music. They spent loads of time talking about music. John gave his opinion here and there and answered any questions put to him but mostly he was content just watching them and listening. It was actually very pleasant and the wine really was quite good. At some point he noticed that he wasn’t glaring at Sherlock or trying to choke his utensils. The wine had taken some of the tension and he let himself watch them a little longer, a little closer. Sherlock looked like he had lost even more weight since his return, the circles under his eyes looked a bit darker. John could tell he probably hadn’t eaten in days and was having a hard tame getting his food down and keeping it down but was being very gracious and kept soldering on. When Mary went to the kitchen to get dessert he motioned for Sherlock to put the rest of his food on his plate. Something that Sherlock did with a grateful if cautious smile. 

If anyone were watching them from the window it would look like a normal dinner among close friends and he could admit that it almost felt like it too. Almost. When the food was done and the wine gone they chatted for a bit longer but when Mary offered tea Sherlock thank them for the lovely dinner and took his leave. The night had been peaceful, no explosions or thunderous fighting, no delving into the depths of their tattered friendship yet John was left exhausted. Mary on the other hand seemed full of energy and looked as if she had just achieved a great triumph and he supposed she had. 

That night his dreams were full of Sherlock. Sherlock’s lips against his own, the feel of his wet tangled hair in his fists. His cool calloused hands on the overheated skin of his stomach, back, hip and finally on the sensitive skin of his erection. He had had this dream many times in the past two years. Never as vividly or detailed as the first time but it always caused him to wake up out of breath and hard as stone. He knew this wasn’t an erection that would go away on it’s own. Before he had moved in with Mary he would get himself off and then stew in the combination of confusion and the sharp pain of feeling his loss of Sherlock once again. Once Mary had come into his life the dreams lessened and the bouts between each grew longer. When they did happen she was always there to redirect his focus. Of course he had never told her of his dreams. No this was his and only his. He didn’t fear that she would reject him or judge him it was more that he felt that if he told her, if he shared that with her it would be like giving a piece of that experience away and he couldn’t bear that. Therefore that night when he woke up with the sound of Sherlock’s moan in his ear he again didn’t tell her but he delve into her touch, her kisses and let her sounds erase any trace of the mad man at 221b Baker St. 

Over the next several weeks Mary had managed to arrange a number of coffee dates and lunch dates for the three of them. Although, she mysteriously got caught up at work for a few of them and ended up leaving the two men up to their own devices. They were always casual affairs in which they talked about cases that Sherlock was working on, or John’s work but mostly useless drabbled that John knew Sherlock hated nevertheless he endured it without so much as a wrinkle of the nose. John couldn’t help notice that Sherlock was losing even more weight and always looked just a little worse for wear however he never seemed troubled and his attitude was pleasant, well pleasant for Sherlock. He reminded himself that there no longer was anybody nattering him to eat or forcing him to sleep so this was probably a result of him loosing himself in cases and experiments. He also repeated to himself he was no longer Sherlock’s keeper therefore stubbornly he didn’t ask. 

They were on a coffee date that Mary had once again failed to show up for. John knew that their relationship was getting better and all though it might never be what it once was he truly did believe at some point they would be close friends again. He had been thinking about this a lot and worried that if he didn’t do this now he would regret it later down the line so he took a deep breath and bit the bullet. “The wedding is this weekend.” He said while pointedly looking at the coffee in his hands. He could feel Sherlock’s eyes on him hence he looked up and met his gaze. “Things aren’t… I mean, it’s going…Bloody hell.” John said exasperating himself. He took another deep breath. “I would like if you came and stood at my side as my best man.” Sherlock blinked at him a few times and looked completely shocked. John opened his mouth to give him an explanation or a way out when he heard Sherlock say, “It would be my greatest honor.”


	5. Marrying into the Abyss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Mary's wedding is at hand. Sherlock does his duties but looses himself.

Sherlock played his part, he knew John wanted him at his wedding even if he was too mad to see it now nevertheless when John asked him to be his best man Sherlock was shocked. Shocked by John’s willingness to have him play such a sentimental role in the affair and shocked at the pain it caused him. Still he had to hand it to her, Mary had not only kept John from punching him she had somehow managed to move their friendship forward enough to have John want to have Sherlock at their wedding. She was definitely clever. Soon after coffee he got text from her giving him details about photo sessions and tuxes and telling him how excited and grateful she was that he was going to be doing this for John. All he wanted to do was go to his empty flat and lose himself. Forget that the world was there and dive heedlessly into that little black bag in his closet. Instead he texted her saying that it truly was his honor and he would do his best then called Mycroft. 

It didn’t’ take much to convince his brother to help him, after all the elder Holmes had a knack for always saying the appropriate thing while the younger man could barely open his mouth with out offending someone. Still Mycroft refused to completely write the best man speech for him and instead forced Sherlock to suffer thru his interminable speeches as to why certain things were appropriate or not. He also kept insisting that this was easier done in person and not really a matter to be dealt with over the phone but Sherlock knew that one look at him and Mycroft would know. As it was he feared Mycroft was already suspicious so he placed his little black bag in a plastic bag and put it inside an experiment that consisted of large quantities of wild boar intestines. 

When the day came Sherlock did his duty. He stood for photos and even smiled in a few of them. He stood and witnessed as John and Mary exchanged vows. And he stayed long enough to deliver his carefully crafted best man speech. And when the list in his head of all his obligations had exhausted itself he quietly got his coat and made his way out of the banquet hall. 

He had thought he had managed to get out without being noticed when John caught up to him. “Oiy, not even going to say good bye, then” He stopped and turned half expecting to see anger in John’s face but was greeted with a smile. Sherlock wanted to run his tongue on the seam of that smile, he wanted to kiss it right off his face instead he faltered “Ah, you know me and people.” John let out a small but genuine laugh. “I know. I’m amazed you made it this long. But I am grateful. That speech was very good. I take it Mycroft had a hand in it.” Sherlock shifted and said as if it were perfectly reasonable “The git wouldn’t write it for me but he helped.” John laughed again and Sherlock was startled by his proximity. “It’s better this way. There was enough of you in there that it made it special. Thank you.” It took Sherlock a moment to realize it was his turn to talk, “My pleasure.” 

They stood there for a few minutes just looking at each other. “I saw the cello.” Said John referring to Sherlock’s wedding present. At some point he had figured out that she no longer had her own cello and had bought her one. Nothing extravagant, just a good cello and bow to match. “You always seemed to enjoy when I played I figured that you would enjoy it when she played too.” They looked at each other in silence for a bit more. “I really should get back.” Said John pointing behind him towards he ongoing festivities. Before Sherlock could respond John took a step forward, closed the gap between them and wrapped Sherlock in a tight embrace. “Thanks again.” With that John release him and walked back into the fold and vibrations of the wedding. 

All he could do was stare at where the doctor had been. He was acutely aware that aside from the punch to the right side of his face this was the first time in two and a half years that John had touched him. He practically ran towards a cab, desperate to get to Baker St., he leaned forward in his seat as if that would propel the car faster down the road. It killed him to know that Mary really was perfect for John. If this had been two and a half years ago before the night at Harry’s flat he would’ve been grateful that John found someone that could give him all that Sherlock couldn’t. It drove him mad to admit that nothing had changed, there were still mountains of things he couldn’t give John and Mary could the only difference was that now he knew he would be willing to try anything for John. Give anything; sacrifice it all just to make him happy. In a way this was exactly what he was doing. 

Once at Baker St. he didn’t bother changing his clothes. He retrieved his bag from it’s effective if slightly gruesome hiding place and officially moved from having fallen off the wagon to completely getting lost in the deep cavernous mines of his addiction. 

Unlike most of his experiences he hadn’t peacefully descended into oblivion. He instead had been plagued by faces and voices and unwanted touches. When he finally did return to the land of the living he didn’t know how much time had passed but by the look of the flat it had been a few days. He had just loaded the last of his precious escape into the syringe when he heard Mrs. Hudson with someone else move up the stairs “He’s been rowdy up there but I can’t get in he has the door barred. I wasn’t sure whom else to call,” She was telling him with more that just a bit of consternation. Sherlock place the syringe in the pocket of his dressing gown. “It’s alright Mrs. Hudson. I’m here to check…” Sherlock opened the door. The look on Lestrade face told him he looked at least as bad as he felt. “Come on in Detective Inspector.” He said with a flourish of his hand. “It’s alright Mrs. Hudson, we’ll get on just fine.” He told her. The DI nodded to the landlady and she made her way back down. 

Lestrade barely made it into the flat “Bloody hell, Sherlock! What is God’s name are you playing at!” He half shouted as his eyes darted around the flat. “Greg. Two years ago Moriarty said ‘Three snipers, three bullets. Mrs. Hudson, John and you.” Lestrade seemed frozen in his spot and looked stunned. Sherlock wasn’t sure if it was due to the fact that they had never spoken about it or the fact that he used the DI first name. But now that he had him off kilter he had to press on “That man saw what I had not been able to. I appreciate you and value your friendship.” Now the man looked as if he was about to faint. “As a friend all I’m asking for is time. It will all right itself soon. I just need some time.” Lestrade looked like he was deciding between whether to chop off his left foot or his right. “Please, Greg.” Sherlock pressed. That snapped the DI back. He gave a curt nod and left the flat. 

Sherlock knew he only had a few minutes at best. He pulled on some old denims and a ratty hoodie, remnants from his days in hiding and went to the window. Lestrade was on his mobile and there could only be two people he would call, John or Mycroft. By the tension in the man’s shoulders and neck he knew it was his brother on the other end of the line. He took the syringe with its valued content placed it in the pocket of his hoodie and made his way out of the flat thru the back window and down he water spout.


	6. The Price of a Honeymoon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Mary return to find Sherlock gone.

Their honeymoon, a quick trip around some of the smaller Isles, had been brilliant and just long enough. John had returned to London feeling relaxed and happier than he had been in some time. Yet they hadn’t been back for two hours when his world came crashing down around his ears again. They were still unpacking and riding the high of their honeymoon when the doorbell rang. As soon as he saw it was Andy he knew it was bad. They never rang and he looked frantic and scared. “Doc the vulture, that posh one, he’s back and he got to Stevie. He’s really bad.” Immediately John got his medic’s bag and followed Andy. He phoned Lestrade on the way over and called for an ambulance. When he finally got to Stevie there was nothing he could do but comfort the boy. The attack had ben so vicious, so exhaustive that John doubted they would have been able to save him if this had happened inside a hospital. 

By the time Lestrade got there with his team and an ambulance most of the street kids had gone, naturally skittish around police, but the few that remained insisted that it had been the same man that had attacked Andy. “He’s back, then.” Said John as they watched the ambulance take Stevie’s body. “Yeah. This is the fourth homeless the bastard’s killed.” The DI spat completely frustrated. That was a hell of an escalation from the previous attacks and it was happening very quickly. John had only been gone for two weeks. “Any new leads? What does Sherlock say? Does he have any ideas?” At that Lestrade froze the look he gave John made his chest contract and he felt a frozen stone drop to the pit of his stomach. “What is it? Where is he? What happened?” He couldn’t tell if he was shouting or whispering. The sound of the blood rushing at his ears was deafening and he was loosing his balance. “John, we’ll find him. But he’s using again and he’s gotten really good at hiding. It’s just going to take us some time.” He felt hands hold him up but wasn’t sure if they belonged to the DI. “Mycroft is helping us look. We’ll find him.” If Lestrade thought that telling him that Mycroft was also looking was going to sooth John he was sorely mistaken. “No, no, no. I can’t.” John knew that if Mycroft hadn’t found Sherlock by now he would remain lost until he decided otherwise and that could be another two years. He finally lost all control and began to wretch on the side of the alley. 

When he made it back to his flat there was a piece of paper under his door. 

I am alive. SH 

John immediately comprehended that this was the message he had demanded when he had barged into Baker St. four days after Sherlock’s return. Sherlock had been right, the message didn’t make it better, it was a reminder that he was out there alone, in bad shape and definitely not at peace. The next weeks went by in a haze for John. He had spent his days busy as usual at work and in the evenings him and Mary were with the homeless network either patching them up or looking for Sherlock. He had started making regular trips to both Lestrade and Mycroft trying to see if they had uncovered anything useful but always left empty handed. However, the messages kept coming. They all said the same thing 

I am alive. SH 

John focused not on what the messages said but on how they were written, how neat and steady the handwriting was or the paper that was used. These were the real indicator of Sherlock’s well being. In his search for Sherlock John was starting to think like him. He saw the stains on the paper and tried to figure out if he was eating or if he was hurt. 

The attacks from the vulture had lessened in number but were getting more methodical. He had also escalated from just giving them a beating with a possibility of death to kidnapping and torturing until he was sure they were dead. Lestrade was running ragged and they were no closer to finding who this man was, why he was doing it or where. John and Mary had just gotten to their flat when he got a call from the DI “Hey John, we have a kid in hospital, Tommy. I think he’s one of yours.” “Probably. Curly blond haired kid? What happened?” Asked John and not for the first time wondering if he was spending just a little too much time with the homeless network. “That bastard that’s been killing the homeless got to him. But this kid is going to be alright. He is pretty beat up but he’ll live.” Lestrade stated and John could tell there was more to this call. “That’s a change in his M.O. How do you know it’s the same guy?” “Yeah, it’s the same guy. Everything fits, it’s just…well it looks like Sherlock interrupted him.” 

John couldn’t respond. He knew Sherlock had been in danger before and this new lifestyle of his wasn’t exactly safe but the idea of him messing with this monster in his current condition brought a panic to the core of John so instantly that he was having a hard time breathing. When he didn’t respond Lestrade continued. “We’re not sure what happened. All we know is that Sherlock called it in to 999 and asked for them to contact me. When we got there the only one there was this Tommy kid and someone had tied a belt round his leg keeping him from bleeding out of a wound.” He realized Mary was at his side rubbing his back and holding something in her hand. “Look John, I don’t know if he is back trying to work on the case or if he was just at the wrong place at the wrong time but at least he has his wits about him enough to keep himself and Tommy alive. I’ll give you a ring as soon as I know more.” “Please do. And Lestrade, thank you.”

Mary guided him to the sofa, she looked concerned but didn’t push John. “Sherlock…” He began as an explanation. “He was just here.” She blurted. “He left this. I tried going outside to see if I could catch him but he was gone. It couldn’t have been even five minutes.” She raised the piece of paper in her hand and gave it to John. 

Alive. SH

The probability that he was still close by and watching the flat was high so John got a pen from the desk and wrote on the back of the paper. He took it to the door securing it with sticky tape. John made sure that the neat handwriting was clearly visible even at a distance. 

Please, I just want to talk.

It only took a few minutes before a blocked call came into to John’s mobile. He answered and tried to keep his shaky hands from dropping the damned thing. “For newlyweds you sure spend a lot of time on the street with homeless people. You should rectify that.” Sherlock wasn’t slurring but his voice was slow and his words deliberate as if he was trying to keep himself from falling asleep. “Are you alright? Where are you? What happened?” He had told himself that he wasn’t going to bombard Sherlock with questions but he couldn’t help himself, the nervous energy inside him was threatening to overtake him. Sherlock’s breathing was that of someone having a hard time pulling air into their lungs, slow but heavy. “Are you hurt?” John asked trying to sound calmer than he felt. “The purpose of me leaving you notes, as per your request I might add, was for you to know that I’m perfectly fine.” Sherlock sounded almost as cocky and obnoxious as ever, except he couldn’t quite get that edge to his voice that was so off putting to people. John wanted to tell him to come back, that they would get him help, that Lestrade needed him, for crying out loud that he needed him but all that he managed was a half choked “Sherlock.” “Please John, it’s almost over.” It was almost a whisper, he sounded weak and very far away. Then nothing, the line was dead and John felt empty. 

He immediately dialed Mycroft. He answered with “He wasn’t on the line long enough to get an exact trace on him John but obviously he is close to your flat.” “He said it was almost over. Do you have him on an assignment? Is he working a case?” John was aware that he was almost shouting but he couldn’t seem to get his temper under control. “I assure you John, that if my little brother is working any case it is not one of mine and I have no knowledge of it.” Mycroft was irritatingly calm then his voice soften. “How did he sound?” “Not good at all.” Replied John before hanging up on the elder Holmes.


	7. An Unreasonable Reason

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock figures out a way to protect John and Mary that will also give him the respite he craves.

He hadn’t meant to get involved, as a matter of fact the first few weeks he had concentrated on avoided the CCTV, the homeless, the police and of course John. All proved surprisingly easy considering how high he kept himself. But then he started noticing a pattern. Not of the act itself, although it definitely spoke volumes of the violence seeded in the perpetrator. However, it was the pattern in the victims that caught Sherlock’s attention. At first they seemed like random homeless, someone that no one would miss, someone the police might ignore, and the first two victims seemed to be just that. Yet as the victims piled on and the attacks got more gruesome he realized that all of them where people around John and around Mary. Even while they were on their honeymoon the first people killed had come into contact with the couple. The woman Mary gave half her lunch to. The man John had helped hydrate after a bought of binge drinking. The boy whose sprained ankle Mary had set and bandaged. Tommy who was one of the regulars that would walk John to work or keep him company at the park during that time when John was so mad at Sherlock he couldn’t function.

He might have missed it if he hadn’t fallen back into his old habit of watching John. In his state sometimes he have a hard time remembering if he still had to embark on a trip or if he was already back. Unavoidably Mary would cross his line of sight and it would all come rushing back to him. He learned to appreciate her as a grounding force that would steady him into the present allowing him to see how the noose was tightening around them. 

Quickly he was able to infer the pattern. As time passed and the violence escalated it was no longer enough that the victim had at some point come in contact with either of them. No it had to be the last person one of them interacted with. And if the person happened to have contact with both of them then the torture would last longer and be more extreme. It only took him a few days to find all the locations where the victims where being taken to. A burned out butcher’s shop, an abandoned industrial paint processing plant, a shut down carwash. All starting at the edges of the city then slowly spiraling inwards with the epicenter not downtown London but John and Mary’s flat. After a few he was able to predict where the next one was going to be, that’s how he had found Tommy. 

He could see the pattern of the victims. He could map out the locations. He could even dissect the violence used and to some degree even predict what the escalation was going to be. It was the who and why that kept Sherlock’s wheels spinning. He was sure that whoever this was wasn’t going to try to go after John directly since it was obvious both Mycroft and Lestrade were carefully watching John. What had he done to invite such wrath? But it all became painfully clear when he stepped into the empty shop in search of Tommy. 

He had been coming down a bit so he was antsy and a bit unfocused therefore it took him a bit to notice the kid had gone missing. Knowing exactly where they were going to take him allow Sherlock to find him with in minutes and call 999. He peered thru the window trying to assess the situation and the face that he saw took him aback. Although he had never seen this man before Sherlock had witness a man at least 25 years senior to the man in front of him die in Honduras wearing this same face. Yes, yes. He always missed something. It wasn’t about John it was about Sherlock. Although he hadn’t killed this man’s father it was because of him that he had lost his life and now Jr. here wanted revenge. In the end he had been able to make enough of a racket that they left Tommy alone to go after him of course that also meant that by the time the police showed up they were long gone. 

In the middle on the night he cut power to John and Mary’s flat. Predictably, when their alarm failed to go off they were both late for work. Mary came rushing out of the flat first while John locked up. Sherlock, dressed in his raggedy clothes and too large sunglasses bumped into her knocking her purse to the ground. He immediately bent over keeping his face obscured behind his hoodie and helped her pick her possessions from the floor returning them to her along side a small piece of paper. By the time John got to her he had already walked away and was calling Lestrade. “Hello.” “4319 Northfield Rd. Wait 30 minutes.” With that Sherlock hung up and tossed the mobile. He’d only walked two blocks when the black car pulled up next to him. The door opened and Sherlock got inside. “Good of you to join us Mr. Holmes.” Came the think South American accent.


	8. Good Bye. For Now

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John manages to undo Sherlock's plans

They decided to take a cab to work in the interest of hopefully only getting there a little late and not extremely late. John was calling in to let work know that they would be a few minutes late. Mary was by his side arranging her possessions back into her purse and going on about the food in the fridge spoiling and having to call the landlord. John had just hung up when he notice Mary had gone very still and very silent. He turned to see her white as death. “That man, on the street. That man…I didn’t see….” For a moment John thought the man had stolen something from her then he saw the piece of paper in her shaking hands. He had just talked to Sherlock the night before and apparently the man had just bumped into Mary not ten minutes ago, so whatever this was John could still fix it. He had to. He took the piece of paper from her with surprisingly steady hands. 

Goodbye, for now. SH

The soldier in him kicked in. He needed a plan of action, steps to follow. He dialed Lestrade. The DI picked up on the second ring and didn’t sound surprised to hear from John. “He just rang. Gave me an address and told me to wait 30 minutes, but we’re on our way now. I’m not waiting a bloody half an hour.” “Give the address and I’ll meet you there.” John sounded calmer than he felt. “John, mate. He might not even be there when we get there. He might just be pointing us to something we missed from a case.” Lestrade protested. “Then I’ll see he isn’t there and I’ll go on my way.” Lestrade hesitated but eventually said “4319 Northfield Rd.” 

By the time John hung up Mary was having the cabbie pull to the side. “You take this one and I’ll get the next one. Don’t worry I’ll make something up at work but please do be careful, love.” She gave him a quick kiss before getting out of the cab. He was sure that he wasn’t being a very good husband and he desperately needed to do better. He wanted to tell her something that made it better instead he told the cabbie the address and watched her stay behind with a worried look. 

John wasn’t sure how long exactly it had taken for him to get there but by the end of the ride he was ready to jump right out of his skin. The building turned out to be a massive empty building by the gas plant. John was momentarily confused at the fact that despite Lestrade having a large number of officers on scene everyone was being exceptionally silent. Donovan whispered to John. “They’re still here. We found the car in the back of the building but we don’t know where yet.” She must of thought that was going to make John stay away because she turned and began walking away from the building. John practically ran inside. If there was any chance Sherlock was in there he was going to find him. Specially if there was a chance that he was being tortured. 

He was being very quiet, he didn’t want to spook anyone who might then get the idea that they didn’t have time to continue beating Sherlock and would be better off just killing him straight off. He was really trying to listen to any clues that would guide him as where to go but the sound of his own breathing and the rushing of his pulse were deafening in his ears so it was no surprise when he didn’t hear the man behind him until the last minute when the man swung hitting John on the side of the head hard enough to knock him to the ground. It wasn’t sufficiently hard to render him unconscious but enough to open a fairly large and very bloody gash. 

The man dragged him up a stairwell, turning to bar the door and then continuing into a large room. There he ungracefully dumped John on his knees close to where three men stood. Two were clearly hired guns and the other was an extremely well dressed man maybe in his mid twenties. They were all standing around a figure, wearing only denim pants and not shirt, on the floor. There is where John’s eyes locked. He couldn’t bee sure it was Sherlock since the man was on all fours with his face towards the floor. John doubted even further because even though Sherlock had always been thin he could see despite being terribly bloody that this man was practically all skin and bones. He became certain it was Sherlock when he spotted three of the four little black/blue dots on the man’s right shoulder. Despite their situation John couldn’t help once more wondering what they were. 

“Well, well. It seems that I will have the pleasure of killing you after all Doctor Watson.” To that the broken, bruised man lifted his head. His face was thoroughly covered in blood and extremely swollen to the point that his left eye was mostly swollen shut. He didn’t look at John his eyes trained on the elegant man in the middle with an expression full of hatred his lip curled in almost a snarl. John didn’t miss a beat, “You can try yet better men have failed.” 

The man barked a mirthless laugh as he stuck his fingers somewhere near Sherlock’s right shoulder blade. He must have had a wound there judging be the way blood suddenly gushed down his side and onto the floor yet Sherlock never made a noise, just screwed his eyes shut. John could see his whole body shaking and when his arms gave out from under him he wanted to catch Sherlock to keep his face from hitting the floor. However, all he could do was watch praying that Lestrade and his people would hurry up and find them while he thought of ways to bring the mad man’s attention towards him and away from Sherlock. “I believe we have a bit of a score to settle, you and me. You’ve been picking on a few of my friends. Have your goons back off and we can give it a go, then.” John spat with as much vile as he could muster. 

The man quirked an eyebrow and walked slowly almost lazily towards John therefore John was caught off guard when the man spun and landed a perfect kick on John’s right kidney. He fell forward completely winded, he lifted his face to try to pull air into his lungs only being able to give a small cough. He saw Sherlock straighten himself up. “You misunderstand Doctor Watson, there is a score to settle but it’s between me and Mr. Holmes, not you.” “Alvarez!” Growled Sherlock. But the man walked around John ending up behind him and to his left. He bent over and yanked John up by his hair. All John could see was the celling and part of Alvarez’s face. Instantly John was aware of the blade that was being trailed down his right side. “Now I’ll consider it even when Mr. Holmes watches you die. Killing him will just be fun.” He still hadn’t recovered his breath when he heard tumult coming from the vicinity of Sherlock. He heard shots fired and then Alvarez pressed the blade into his side. It couldn’t have gone to deep but it must have hit bone because the pain of it was blinding. He heard more commotion then nothing. When he was finally able to open his eyes he was laying on the floor with his head next to Sherlock’s and their feet pointing in opposite directions. “Lestrade was supposed to wait 30 minutes.” Whispered Sherlock. “You would’ve died, you bloody idiot.” John managed before it all went black.


	9. Back to Baker St.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is back at 221b Baker St. but he isn't alone.

It hadn’t taken much to figure out what Alvarez’s weakness was. Sherlock had gleamed that after the first few victims. Alvarez tortured not only to get a point across but because he enjoyed causing his victims pain. He had learned where to cut, how to hit and what to break in a way that made the pain receptors explode. He knew when to back off and let them rest to prevent his victims from either passing out of dying before he was ready. This was a skill that Alvarez had carefully honed thru much practice. This was his addiction and if there was anything Sherlock understood it was addiction. 

When Sherlock realized that Alvarez was the one killing the homeless and why it didn’t take him long to make his decision and formulate a plan. Once he had made his peace with what he was going to do a funny sort of peace came over him. He wandered the city streets for a bit then cut John and Mary’s electricity followed by climbing the rooftop of the building behind their flat. He had discovered months ago that even though he couldn’t see them, due to their tendency to leave the back window opened just a bit he could hear them. If he closed his eyes he could pretend that he was in the room with them. In the past weeks he had heard them talk about work, his sister, her parents, the homeless they treated, Sherlock, he had even heard them make love. Although the last one had been on accident on a time where he was so high he hadn’t been able to get off the roof fast enough. It had sent him into a blind drug-fueled downward spiral. When he emerged from it he had lost three days and acquired a number of new bruises. 

As he heard them wake he took the last of his precious drug, not enough to make him lose it just enough to help him deal with some of the pain Alvarez was sure to cause him and hopefully keep him alive long enough for Lestrade to find them. Sherlock was heavily relying on the incompetence of Lestrade’s people. He feared that John would never be able to get over Sherlock committing suicide again and reasoned with himself that this would be different. He hoped that by the time the police found him he would either be dead or not able to survive his injuries. But as usual, John had come in and thrown a wrench in his carefully time plan. Mary must have discovered the note much sooner than Sherlock anticipated and John must have pressed Lestrade for the address. 

He drifted in and out of consciousness while they place him on the gurney and into the ambulance. “John.” He managed a few times until someone reassured him that he was fine and already on route to the hospital. Sherlock’s hands felt sticky and crusty all at the same time. He remembered the feel of plunging Alvarez’s own knife into his heart and the gurgling noises he had made. For a while there he lost himself then the nightmares began. He woke up screaming in a hospital room almost completely covered in bandages sweating profusely. He couldn’t control the chills that ran thru him or the trembling that wracked his body. Mycroft and Mary stood at his side in an instant. “It’s alright little brother, we have you.” Mycroft said and he actually sounded concerned. He tried to calm himself nevertheless the panic within him was all consuming. “J…Jo..” He tried. “It’s all right. We’re all here.” She said as she pointed to the next bed where John was laying looking in relative good health if exceptionally worried. “You just need to get it out of your system. But we’ll all be right here.” She soothed as she helped him recline back into the bed. He meant to just close his eyes but the iron arms of his dreams gripped him once more. 

The next couple of weeks were a blur of nightmares, fever, pain, confusion interrupted by bouts of oblivion. Always he found John, Mary, Mycroft, Mrs. Hudson or even Lestrade or Molly by his side. It was as if they didn’t want him to wake and not have a familiar face close by. They didn’t realize that leaving him alone would have been more merciful but at least they did him the courtesy of not asking him how he was feeling. It had taken longer for his mind to clear and get to a drug free state since he had to have surgery and some of his injuries while not fatal were extensive. As soon as he had reached that state he started refusing pain medication all together and within a couple of days he was checking himself out of the hospital against the protests of the doctors and poor Mrs. Hudson whose turn it was to watch over him. 

By the time they made it to Baker St. he was exhausted and couldn’t help the groan that escaped him as soon as he saw his brother waiting for him. He was in no mood to suffer thru one of his brother’s endless rants but Mycroft only said, “Welcome home Sherlock. I’ll leave you to it. I trust that you are in good hands.” And with that he left. That’s when he noticed Mary standing in the kitchen. She gave him a shy smile took him to by the arm and led him to his room. Carefully she helped him into his bed. When he was settled she gently moved his hair out of his face bend over and placed a slow soft kiss on his lips. Sherlock was too shocked to react he just started at her. “What…” He began. “Shh. You need sleep now. We’ll all talk later.” She pulled the blankets further up his chest. “When John gets home he’ll help you change into more comfortable pajamas. For now sleep.” With that she left the room. Sherlock noticed that she had left his bedroom door open but was in too much pain and too tired to close it so he just slept.


	10. Loose Ends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft give John as much information as he can afford to give him.

Despite the pain of the wound at his side his injuries had ben actually quite superficial and John was released after only a couple of days in the hospital. They left Lestrade with Sherlock and Mary and him went downstairs to get a cab. As they were making their way downstairs Mary began, “Are you aware that I know you love me?” John looked at her more than slightly confused. “Erm…I would hope so.” “So you are aware that I know that no matter what happens you will love me and you’ll be there for me in every and any way that I need you?” “Erm…Yes.” He answered completely without a clue of where she was going with this. The lift door opened and she pushed him out. “What you might not know.” She continued. “Is that, that knowledge is what lets me get thru all the bad and scary stuff. It lets me sleep at night despite the monsters lurking in the shadows.” She pushed him past the hospital doors and towards the waiting cabs. “But more importantly that knowledge is what lets me fully enjoy and appreciate all the good and wonderful experiences that life has to offer.” He just looked at her as she selected a cab and helped him in. Once she was seated next to him she said, “So why would you deny Sherlock that knowledge?” John’s eyes widened. He opened his mouth to reply but didn’t really now what to say so he closed it again. “By the way we’ve moved out of our flat.” She told him flatly then turned to the cabbie “221B Baker St. please.” 

It did occur to John that he should be angry or at least a bit upset that she had taken such a drastic unilateral decision but he couldn’t seem to muster up the feelings. At some point he did ask her why and she simply answered, “This is where you belong and I belong with you.” As if that explained it all. Funny enough it really sort of did. 

Mary spent the next few days before John could go back to work splitting her time between work, caring for John and being with Sherlock. John spent his days either being looked at by Mary or Mrs. Hudson, or going to be with Sherlock. It was during one of these trips to see Sherlock that Mycroft cornered him into a conversation. “A moment John, if you please.” Mycroft had said outside Sherlock’s room before John had a chance to get there. John glanced at the door eager make his way inside. “The nurses are tending to him now. It might be a few minutes.” Mycroft added and as if on cue a string of curses came out of the room which told him they were trying to clean Sherlock. Resigned John sighed, “How can I help you, Mycroft?” The eldest Holmes began to speak as he started walking down the corridor and John had no option but to follow him. “I must begin by telling you how please I am that you and the Mrs. decided to move into Baker St. I really do think it is the best for all of you.” “What? Was this your idea?” John demanded as his anger finally began to spark. “No, no, dear John. That was a refreshingly brilliant idea belonging exclusively to Mary. I just simply pointed out how the healthiest you both had ever been was when you shared a roof. I must admit I was quite surprised when she first suggested the move but it makes perfect sense now.” John didn’t answer, he was unsure how he felt about Mary and Mycroft discussing, well anything really but specially Sherlock and himself. 

When they arrived at the small courtyard next to the hospital Mycroft sat on the only bench and John had no option but to join him. “I’m sure you have a questions regarding Mr. Alvarez.” Mycroft added once John had settled. “A few, yeah.” “Marcos Alvarez son of Emmanuel Alvarez. Mr. Emmanuel Alvarez had run a profitable if small drug and artifacts trafficking operation out of Honduras for many years that is until he received the help of Moriarty. This allowed him to work with a small Taiwanese organization called The Crane. Soon they turned two relative small and insignificant organizations half a world apart into one very dangerous, extremely violent global affair.” Mycroft pause and since John hadn’t been looking at him at first he thought that was the end of the explanation but when he turned he was surprised to find Mycroft seemed to be struggling to find either the words or his courage to continue. “It took months for Sherlock to track both Mr. Alvarez and a Mr. Cheung, head of The Crane. And even then it was weeks of a number of tactics, I can’t possibly discuss, before Sherlock got them in the same location. By that point he had already created a rather large rift between the two men therefore it was no surprise that by the time Interpol was on hand to arrest them a shoot out of sorts had erupted leaving Mr. Alvarez dead and Sherlock shot. That’s how he got that scar on his left thigh.” Mycroft told John as if it was obvious that John would have already seen it. 

John ignored the ridiculous assumption, “What about the other bloke, the Taiwanese one?” “Ah, Mr. Cheung. Him as well as most of the others from both organizations are and will remain in custody for the foreseeable future. Thanks in no small part to my little brother.” John didn’t miss the hint of pride in Mycroft’s voice. It made John feel both proprietary towards Sherlock and resentful of Mycroft for putting him in danger. “So then what about Marcos? It didn’t occur to you to pick him up as well?” Mycroft finally turned to look at John. “Ah, this is a prime example as to why the collection of information is indeed so valuable. You see up to that point we knew of Marco’s existence but he seemed to have no involvement with his father’s organization neither before nor after the merger with The Crane. At that time it appeared as if Emmanuel was trying to shelter him from the violence.” John scoffed. “Yes, lack of information is a dangerous thing. It now appears that Emmanuel had a distaste for his son particular brand of violence and believing that it would hinder him from successfully running the organization had kept Marcos well under wraps.” 

John leaned forward placing his elbows on his knees and his face in his hands. He knew that it had been Moriarty who had masterminded the whole thing and had created all this violence in the first place but John was really struggling not to punch Mycroft for making Sherlock clean up the whole mess. “So that’s it, then? All those homeless he beat and killed to get revenge on Sherlock for killing his dad?” “Oh no, John. Until he killed Marcos in an attempt to save you Sherlock had never killed in his life. This was all because Sherlock wasn’t able to help Emmanuel and watched him die.” It took John a moment to process that. Logically it shouldn’t of been that hard, after all, John killed a man to save Sherlock almost immediately after meeting him but the idea that Sherlock had managed all that crime solving and that absurd trip without killing only to come home and soil his hands to save John broke his heart. Suddenly he was itching to go check on Sherlock, desperate to make sure he was ok and really just needing to be in the same room with him. John got to his feet, “So now what? What’s next?” Mycroft stood up next to him, “Now you help each other heal.” John looked at him suspiciously, “That’s it? So why’d you tell me all of this?” Mycroft gave him a small tired smile, “I repeat myself, lack of information can only hurt us and the last thing I want is my little brother to hurt any more.” With that he walked away and John almost ran back to Sherlock’s room.


	11. The Veiled Blessing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mary is driving Sherlock mad and reality is starting to set in.

He wasn’t sure how long he hand slept but judging by the darkness and the crap telly someone was watching it was well past midnight. He had to relieve himself so as gingerly as he could he threw his legs over the edge of the bed but couldn’t help the groan of pain when something pulled. He immediately heard steps that he recognized as John’s. “Alright there, mate?” John asked from the doorframe. “Yeah, I just…” Sherlock managed as he motioned for the loo. “Ah, yes. Of course.” John responded as he helped Sherlock to his feet. “You don’t have to stay here. I can manage.” Sherlock said and sounded more weak that he had hoped. “No, you really should be in hospital but since you checked yourself out what better than to have a nurse and a doctor living with you.” Sherlock turned to look at him in surprise but John just closed the door to the loo. “Besides, someone cut the wiring to our flat and being an old place it will have to be completely rewired. You know… you could’ve just flipped the breaker off.” John said thru the door and Sherlock could hear the smile. Truth was that in his state he hadn’t even thought about the breaker really it was a miracle he hadn’t electrocuted himself cutting the wires. Still he answered with as much attitude as he could manage, “Well I didn’t want you waking up and flipping it back before it was time.” A small laugh came form the other side of the door. 

After a bit of a struggle Sherlock managed but after washing his hands he could do little more than sit at the edge of the bathtub. “Erm…John.” John was by his side helping him up and guiding him to his bed in an instant. “We need to get you out of that clothes and into proper pajamas.” John said as he began going thru Sherlock’s drawers until he found something suitable. Somebody, he suspected Mrs. Hudson, had brought him a button down shirt and trousers which he had left the hospital wearing. He had managed to get them on thru sheer force of will and desperation to leave the place but now was having a hard time getting them off. When John turned with pajamas on hand he hesitated a moment but then seeing how Sherlock was struggling he knelt in front of Sherlock and began undressing him. The closeness, the position, the entire act made memories of the night at Harry’s flat come rushing unbidden to Sherlock and he couldn’t help the racing of his heart, the trembling of his hands or the sharp intake of breath when John pulled his trousers down. “I’m sorry. Did I pull something? Are you ok?” John asked looking quite worried. “No, no. I’m alright.” Sherlock responded trying to get himself under control. Nevertheless, John was that much more gentle as he dressed him. Sherlock did notice how John’s eyes paused and lingered on the little black/blue dots on his shoulders but neither of them said a word.

Sherlock had questions and a thousand explanations that he needed to give John therefore he steeled himself and began, “We should talk. I should tell you.” “Shh, Sherlock. We should talk and we will but not right now. You need to get better first. And you need to rest.” John said as he gently helped him lay back down in bed and pulled the covers over him. “I don’t need to get better I can talk.” Insisted Sherlock feeling as if he waited any longer he might lose his courage. John gave a small laugh and brushed the hair out of Sherlock’s eyes. “Just barely and we have so much to discuss not to mention I plan on giving you a thorough tongue lashing and I’m not going to hold back so you need to be better for that.” John said with a smile then he turned to leave but Sherlock caught him by he wrist. “I am very sorry, John.” John turned to look at Sherlock with watery eyes. He bent down and kissed Sherlock on the forehead. “Shush now. Sleep you need your rest.” With that he was out of the room of course leaving the bedroom door open. 

The next few weeks were a blur of pain and lots of sleep. As he slowly regained his strength people started to visit. Lestrade with cases, Molly bringing him results to experiments and the odd body part just in case he wanted to further the experiment. It didn’t go unnoticed by Sherlock that these visits usually happened when Mary and John couldn’t adjust their schedules and they both had to be gone simultaneously. He felt like a child with an array of nannies but they kept some of the boredom at bay so he didn’t complain. As a matter of fact he didn’t really complain of much as of late and when he did he always made sure Mary wasn’t within earshot. At least after the soup incident, as John had taken to calling it. It had occurred one evening when Sherlock, after having Mary try to feed him for the fifth time that day had snapped at her with a “Don’t you listen, woman? I’m not hungry!” She turned on her heel, bent down, put her face just a few inches away from his and said in a low firm voice. “You will not talk to me that way. Ever. Whether you see it or not, whether you appreciate it or not I, as well as everyone else are taking care of you and that deserves respect. So grow up, stop whining and eat your soup.” Sherlock blinked a few times then gave a curt nod. She stood up smiling at him and as if they had just been talking about the weather she said, “Go on, then. It’s not as good cold” turning for the door. That’s when Sherlock noticed John at the door looking completely shocked. John sat next to Sherlock on the bed. “What was…” Began Sherlock. “I don’t know, mate. But I’d eat my soup if I was you.” Responded John, still looking a bit flummoxed. It occurred to Sherlock not for the first time that she was a brave woman and definitely a force to be reckoned. 

After that he kept his whining to a minimum and usually only to John. Even after she started making him play the violin and help her with the cello. He knew that this was her way of getting him to do some of the physical therapy John had declared he needed when he took the stiches off his right shoulder blade out. He did after all feel loads better and playing made him feel a bit less stir crazy. 

Soon John was taking him out for walks. Sherlock had been shocked to find the day was warm on their first trip out. “What date is it?” He asked feeling completely out of touch with the world. “The twenty-second of May.” It had been a full eighteen months since he had returned from his trip abroad. “We lived together for two years. I was gone for two more and this last year and a half has been…” “Full of madness.” John supplied. “I was going to say chaos.” Sherlock corrected. “I seem to always bring chaos to your life.” Sherlock declared feeling a bit guilty. “And it’s better for it.” John smiled and tried to sound reassuring but Sherlock saw that the conversation that they had been skirting would soon be happening. However, Lestrade showed up with a couple of good proper cases one after the other and Sherlock was lost in them for a few weeks and the conversation never did materialize. He knew John had questions and he wanted to give him all the answers John deserved but they had fallen into a comfortable sort of home life the three of them and he really didn’t want to do anything to disturb it so he never pushed the subject. 

Days and weeks went by and Sherlock started to feel apprehensive and anxious again. He could do this, he could live the rest of his life like this, just the three of them. But he knew it wouldn’t last. At some point they would want to leave him, get their own place and maybe even start a family. He just needed to find an acceptable way of dealing with the change. He knew he had been more obnoxious lately but couldn’t help himself. One evening when John had gone out and Sherlock was at the kitchen table dissecting some frozen eyeballs Mary came to stand next to him. When she didn’t leave he finally turned to look at her. “Do you trust me?” She asked. “What?” “Well have I ever lied to you?” Sherlock tried to go back to his eyeballs not sure what she was getting at but she place her hands on his shoulders and made him face her. “Erm…you’ve kept things from me, like the real reason you make me play the violin.” She just laughed. “I’ll work on that, I promise. But have I ever lied to you?” She insisted. He thought back. “No.” “And I never will, so believe me when I say. I know and I understand and it’s perfectly ok.” With that she walked away and went to watch her shows. He was as confused as ever. What was she on about? She couldn’t mean… No. No. No. He wasn’t even going to entertain the thought. She must mean something touchy feely that he wasn’t understanding. Of course that was it. He went back to his eyeballs only to realize the damned things were starting to thaw and get mushy again. 

He stared and his mushy eyeballs for a bit more and then his need to know everything finally won out. He took the eyeballs stuck them in the freezer then went to the sitting room. “I don’t understand.” She barely looked up from her shows. “I know you don’t but when you do just remember what I said.” She smiled at him and went back to the telly as if that explained it all. The woman must be mad or must think him some kind of mind reader. He wasn’t even going to try to deduce what she might mean so in a huff he went back to the freezer and took a tongue out and started dissecting that instead only to accidently cut it right thru the middle.


	12. Moment of Truth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock finally gives John answers.

Sherlock had been in increasing foul moods as of late and currently was rambling about not being a mind reader and needing more clarification. John came out of the kitchen holding cups of tea for the both of them. He set one at the desk where Sherlock was sitting and took the other to his armchair. “What are you going on about?” “She.” Said Sherlock motioning towards the upstairs bedroom where Mary was currently on the phone with a friend from work. “She’s so confusing and distracting and because of her I ended up with a cut cornea and a tongue nearly severed in half!” “What? Are you ok?” Asked John in mock shock. Sherlock made a half insulted face. “Not me the ones in the freezer. “Ah.” Said John and tried not to roll his eyes. Sherlock began pacing in a huff. “I am trying here John but I don’t know what is expected of me. You don’t really talk anymore and I don’t understand her when she does. I’m clever John, really clever but this makes no sense. I just need answers!” “We all want answers, Sherlock” John answered with more anger than he had intended. Sherlock stopped in mid stride and looked at John as if he was trying to dissect him. John took another sip of tea trying to regain his composure. 

Sherlock plopped himself in his own armchair. “Then ask, John. I will give you all the answers I have.” That’s it, then. They were going to do this now. John sighed and set his cup down. Suddenly he felt so very tired. Still he knew they had to do this they had ignored it long enough. It was almost funny how after all this time of him imagining how this conversation would go and forming all his questions now he couldn’t think of how to start. “When you left on your trip did you plan on leaving so long?” Sherlock looked surprise that John would ask that but he answered just the same. “No. At the time with the information I had I calculated six months at most.” John hesitated. “Did you ever come back to London? I mean before that day…the day you went to the clinic.” The feeling of anger and pain came back to John. He tried to school he face into a neutral expression but he knew Sherlock had seen the anger. “No. Once I left I didn’t come back until that day.” Sherlock sighed and then added “I was only in London a few hours before I looked for you.” Answering a question John hadn’t asked but desperately wanted to know. 

Suddenly John felt a bit stir crazy and got to his feet making it his turn to pace. “You said that you never forgot and mentioned my state after you di… after I thought you… after you left.” John’s jaw clenched and unclenched. “Where you keeping tabs on me?” Sherlock had the decency to look embarrassed. “I…erm… I didn’t have a surveillance team on you or your flat bugged but I would ask about you and my brother would helpfully keep me informed and would send the occasional picture.” “Of course your bloody brother did.” It was clear that he was angry at Mycroft for invading his privacy but John couldn’t decided if it made him feel better or worse that Sherlock wanted to know what was going on with John. John fired off more questions, mostly logistics, where did Sherlock go? Did he ever have help? He kept asking after all the small trivial bits as if knowing all of the details would give him the two years they had lost back. And when the answers didn’t give him that time back he felt angry. 

If Sherlock was tired or frustrated he never showed it he simply kept answering all the questions that tumbled out of John. Despite Sherlock’s unusual patience he couldn’t bring himself to ask what he truly wanted to know like did Sherlock miss him, did he ever consider coming back. He felt like a child for he could even ask what the damned black/blue dots on his shoulders where. All that seemed more personal than John had any right to know. He’d also managed not to ask a single question regarding Sherlock’s recent plunge into the abyss of his addiction. 

There was a creak at the landing. Mary was dressed to go out. Before anybody could ask her anything she said. “Mrs. Hudson and I are going over to Molly’s. We might be very, very late. Actually we might not be back until the morning. So you boys are on your own.” With that she dashed out. John heard the muffled voices of the women and then the front door close after they left. 

“I don’t understand why you are mad because I wanted to know how you were doing.” John’s attention snapped back to Sherlock his anger came right back with it. “If you care so much about my well being why did you disappear a second time.” Sherlock looked stunned either he didn’t expect the question or the anger clearly evident in John’s voice. But once again he composed himself and answered. “You were mad and barely speaking to me. Mostly because Mary wanted me at your wedding but once that was done then I thought…” Sherlock looked down at his feet and for someone so tall he looked so small. Understanding settled around John like a cold think fog replacing his anger with guilt. When he thought Sherlock had died he had felt the incredible pain of loss but had never for even a second doubted that Sherlock cared for him. Sherlock who had sacrificed his reputation to save him and Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson. Who had spent the next two years trying to make the world a better place only to come back and have John greet him with anger and resentment. It was no wonder he had gone back to the drugs. As much as Sherlock liked to pretend he didn’t have a heart John knew he did and he had hurt that heart immensely and Sherlock did the only thing he knew to do which was to numb himself. 

John went to the armchair that held the raven hair man. He held Sherlock’s face with both his hands. “I am so sorry. I will never, ever push you away again. You are my friend and I love you. My life really is better with you and the chaos you bring to it.” Sherlock’s eyes were wide, lips slightly parted and the hands on John’s wrist were trembling. John though of his dreams and had the urge to kiss Sherlock. He released Sherlock’s face, took a step back and cleared his throat. He was about to turn back to return to his armchair when heard the whisper of Sherlock’s deep voice, “It wasn’t a dream. The night at Harry’s flat, I was there.” John felt all the color drained his face. “Pardon? You… what?” John wanted to continue but he felt himself falling as the world started spinning. The next thing he knew Sherlock was holding him up and guiding him into his own armchair. 

John held the heels of his hands on his eyes trying to slow the swirl of a million thoughts and questions in his head. Finally Sherlock burst at the seams and the words came tumbling out as if he didn’t say it fast enough he would drown. “I couldn’t leave London for three weeks and I was with you the entire time but you weren’t getting better and I just wanted you to rest but then you hadn’t eaten so it was too much and I just went in to help but you woke up and held my face and then you-” “Stop!” Shouted John, voice and entire body shaking. He knew exactly what had happened next having replayed every detail of that “dream” countless times in the past almost four years. It was one thing when he thought it was a conjecture of his grief stricken brain but to know that it had really transpired, that Sherlock had let it happen and that he himself had initiated the whole thing was more than John could process. 

It took John a moment to realize that Sherlock was still standing in front of him. He looked up to see a grief stricken expression. No, not grief stricken, it was fear. “I’m not going to punch you.” John said. “I can handle being punched.” Replied Sherlock just barely a whisper. John let out a sigh. He still thought John was going to cut him out of his life. Mary was right, he had somehow managed to deny Sherlock the security that he himself took for granted. John stood and wrapped his arms around Sherlock and felt him tense before relaxing into the hug. The memory of him doing the exact same thing when John first kissed so long ago came unbidden to John.


	13. Uncontrolled Impulses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is scared of what he might lose but can't keep himself from taking more.

He wasn’t sure why he had blurted it out. Sure he had fully planned on being honest with John when he sat down ready to answer any question. But this hadn’t been a question. No it had been more. When John was holding his face and Sherlock saw his pupils expand, felt his pulse quicken and heard his breath hitch just a little he was sure John was remembering what he thought had been a dream and Sherlock couldn’t help himself. 

He spent the next few minutes staring while his brain tried to deduce if John was furious or just angry, if he was going to punch him or just leave him, was he embarrassed, would he tell Mary, would he leave immediately or wait to get settled somewhere, would Sherlock ever see him again, how would he handle it when they left. As the minutes passed his thoughts grew darker, the certainty of having lost John for good this time came crashing around him when John promised not to punch him. When he felt the embrace of what he was sure John meant to be a comforting hug shock coursed thru him but not relief. 

Sherlock couldn’t decided if it really was comforting or not but it was the first real and intimate touch they had shared since that night almost four years ago so he let himself relax into it. John pulled back a little and looked up as if to say something and without thinking he bent down and kissed him. When he realized what he was doing he paused fully expecting to be pushed off or punched but John only pulled him closer and deepened the kiss. Sherlock’s arms tightened around John, hands tangling in his t-shirt. Mary’s word came ringing in his head and he almost laughed but John’s tongue was sliding against his own and he was struggling to keep his knees from buckling under him. “John, I…” “Shh. Don’t.” He felt warm lips kiss his jawline then the length of his neck. He searched those lips again and kissed them desperately wanting to get closer. It became a dance of pushing and pulling, of needy kisses, sharp teeth and soothing tongues. 

Sherlock’s brain whirled, it memorized every kiss, every caress, every scratch and bite and bruising finger on his skin. He was acutely aware of every shaky breath, every moan, every hiss and groan. There was a strange familiarity that came from having been this close to John before only he no longer felt he was taking advantage but instead was with someone who truly wanted to be there with him in that moment. 

The movements and the touches weren’t gentle instead they were the culmination and redemption of all the anger and pain they had caused each other since the beginning of their relationship. As if to emphasize that frenzy when John pinned him against the wall it was hard and crushing. They both realized they now found themselves in Sherlock’s bedroom and paused, their foreheads together utterly out of breath. “Sherlock.” John whispered between breaths. “If you want us to stop tell me now and I’ll walk away.” Sherlock wasn’t sure if it was fury or lust he heard John trying to control nevertheless he knew he would take whatever John needed to give him. He found he couldn’t form the words to express that, instead he kissed him again and pushed him towards the bed. He found the hem to John’s t-shirt and pulled it over his head bending to kiss his neck and chest then dropping to his knees to kiss his abdomen and mouth his erection thru the pajama bottoms. John’s hand tangled in his hair, not pushing or pulling just holding yet it wasn’t until he felt John’s other hand grasp his shoulder with such force he knew the bruises would bloom again that Sherlock finally felt home.


	14. Little Black/Blue Dots

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John discovers what the little black/blue dots are

If his life depended on it John still wouldn’t of been able to explain how they got to this point. It was as if in the space of one breath he had gone from comforting Sherlock and trying to explain that he would always be there for him to kissing him and pulling him close to himself with such veracity and need that it left him dizzy. Memories of what he had thought a dream kept creeping back to him forcing him to compare the two experiences. Yes, Sherlock’s hair was as silky in his hands as he remembered but it wasn’t wet. His moans just as deep only louder in John’s ear and they ran thru him more intensely. 

As the intensity of the moment grew so did his anger. He was angry at Moriarty for what he’d put them thru. Angry at Mycroft for sending Sherlock out on his damned hero’s quest. Angry, no furious at Sherlock for leaving him behind, for not knowing after all this time and after all they had been thru together how important he really is to John. Mostly though he was angry at himself for being so completely and utterly in love with this man and still managing to hurt him so thoroughly. The acceptance that he was in love with Sherlock was what made him pause, attempting to catch his breath only to realize they were in Sherlock’s bedroom. 

He remembered that at Harry’s flat, even though he had been half drugged by Sherlock, it had been him who had initiated the events and it had been him who had kept Sherlock from leaving when he’d tried to leave. He wondered if he had forced Sherlock into something he really didn’t want and more terrifyingly if he was forcing him now. That made his temper flare. He tried, he really tried to keep his anger out of his voice when he asked Sherlock yet instantly knew he had failed by the expression on his face. John was preparing to walk away when Sherlock kissed him and when he dropped to his knees he knew he would never walk away from him again yet his fury didn’t cool. 

Between the tugging, the undressing and the scratches down Sherlock’s back John barely registered when they made it onto the bed. John was caught in an internal battle between simultaneously wanting to bring Sherlock immense pleasure and cause him as much pain. Yet Sherlock’s willingness to accept anything John was willing to give him didn’t escape him so he tried to stop his hands from roughly pulling his head back only to end up clamping his teeth down on the juncture between his neck and shoulder then soothing it with his tongue. Sherlock rewarded him with a deep shudder and moan that ran thru John like lightning. 

It wasn’t until they tangled on the bed with John half on top of Sherlock that John hesitated. He’d never been with another man and wasn’t quite sure what to do next but when Sherlock pressed his hand onto the back of John’s neck in a futile attempt to bring them closer John’s brain shut off and he let his body and desire guide him. He kissed the long line of Sherlock’s neck, down his chest then bit down on one the sensitive nipples only to immediately sooth it with his tongue. He softly wrapped his hand on Sherlock’s erection giving a very gently tug up not enough to satisfy but just enough to make him shudder. 

He moved his mouth further down Sherlock’s chest and abdomen and his hand wandered further down to find the puckered little button. He paused to search the sea color eyes only to find them completely black. Sherlock didn’t have to say a word he just licked his bottom lip and parted his legs just a little further. It occurred to John that he should find lube or something of the sort instead he pulled Sherlock into his mouth as far as he could take him and pushed his already damp with pre-cum sweat finger into Sherlock’s body. He felt long strong fingers tangle in his hair neither guiding nor stopping him just holding him. John massaged, pulled out and pushed back in as his mouth hollowed and his head bobbed up and down. At the edge of his consciousness he heard some commotion and felt Sherlock move. Then Sherlock was pulling him away handing him a small bottle of lotion. “More…please.”

Nevertheless he couldn’t quite get rid of that anger. Anger that made him flip Sherlock onto his stomach, grip his hips a bit too hard and when he finally aligned himself with Sherlock and pushed deep inside his body he knew it was just a bit too roughly. He paused trying to give them both time to adjust. Sherlock didn’t protest, didn’t resist he just bent, adjusted and gave into John’s will and that seemed off. He had spent so much time loving and caring for the man beneath him that this felt off, wrong and utterly not what he wanted. He pulled almost all the way out as he kissed Sherlock’s back. He pushed back in out of breath forehead resting on Sherlock. He finally saw the tears falling on Sherlock’s back “No. No. I can’t.” He gasped as he pulled out. The younger man turned to watch him this time with pain and disappointment clearly visible in his eyes completely misunderstanding what John wanted. However, he didn’t have the brain power at the moment to explain himself instead he kissed Sherlock turning them over pulling the taller man on top of him and wrapping his legs around Sherlock’s waist. From that point on every touch, every kiss was gentle and intense and full of love and need. 

Sherlock hesitated as if he was trying to decided if John really wanted this but John didn’t want there to be any doubt so he took the bottle of lotion and placed it in Sherlock’s hand bringing him down for a kiss. Sherlock’s fingers where gentle and nimble making him both exposed and powerful. John opened for Sherlock completely prepared to give him all that Sherlock was willing to take and receive all that Sherlock needed to give him. By the time that Sherlock finally pushed himself inside of John’s body both men were openly sobbing but this felt right. John’s hands were gripping Sherlock’s shoulders, his back arched, head thrown back. And by the time they both fell off the precipice John’s anger had completely dissipated. And later when John woke up in a tangle of limbs with his forehead pressed to Sherlock’s back he knew what the little black/blue dots were. They were tattoos. As the bruises began to bloom under Sherlock’s skin he realized they were indicators of where John’s fingers had previously marked their stay. He wanted to touch them but his hands were firmly trapped in Sherlock’s grasp even as he slept so he resigned himself to kissing them. He knew that later real life would come crashing down upon them. They would have to deal with this new development and Mary and a number of things he couldn’t even consider but for now he continued kissing Sherlock’s back, neck, lips and once more surrendering to this man he had so missed. 

In the morning as he was making his way out of Sherlock’s bedroom Mary came into the flat. He froze on the spot knowing he look completely disheveled and not really sure what he should do. She on the other hand took one look at him smiled and said, “It’s about bloody time.” She walked over to John, kissed him and wrapped herself around his front. “It’s your turn to make breakfast.” She shouted over John’s shoulder towards Sherlock’s bedroom. “But we’re out of eggs.” Came Sherlock’s reply. The moment felt slightly surreal but John felt truly happy. “I’ll get eggs.” He offered. “I’ll take a shower.” Said Mary. “I’ll make tea.” Came Sherlock’s voice from right behind John. Mary stretched her arms encircling Sherlock in an embrace that left him tightly pressed against John’s back. Sherlock wrapped his arms around the both of them and nobody moved that is until somebody’s belly rumbled and breakfast became important again.


End file.
